


New School, Same Shit

by Joomju



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Highschool AU, Homophobia, offscreen drug use, small town AU, underage pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 22:59:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6397450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joomju/pseuds/Joomju
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one wants to go back to a group home on a Saturday night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New School, Same Shit

**Author's Note:**

> I got tired of reading small town AUs by people who had never lived in a small town before. Loosely set in rural Ontario.

“I am such a fucking idiot. I know, you always say that, so there, I said it first this time.” Clint is pacing on the asphalt, cellphone pressed tight to his ear. He takes a deep breath and continues.

“So I helped the Robertsons move earlier today, and they paid me in beer and pizza and a $50, which was fine. After Barney wanted to go to that barn party over at MacCullen’s, which, well, yea no one wants to go back to the group home on a Saturday night. I shouldn’t have gone. I shouldn’t have fucking listened to Barney and fucking gone, because Christ, he just wanted to meet up with Sean Townsend. We’d been on the property less than 10 minutes and Barney was high as a kite. Dunno how he convinced Sean to give him the stuff, Barney doesn’t have any cash. Dunno where he was all day, but he wasn’t at the Robertsons with me. 

So I’m like, “Whatever, you’re an idiot” you know? At least this time he’s on private property, and there’s no cops around, and he’s not driving. The MacCullen’s are kinda big on that - you can sleep on their couch or in the barn or in your car if you have to, but no driving home while shitfaced. So I’m pissed that Barney’s shitfaced, right, but I figure I can still have a good time. So I’m getting drunk with some jocks - the older MacCullen kid, Tom I think, and his buddies Dan and Jake - when the younger MacCullen kid comes home. And Tom and his buddies just start laying into him - why you gotta dress like that, did your boyfriend break up with you, don’t cry, you’ll ruin your eyeliner - you know the drill. And this kid - I don’t even know his name, but Tasha, you should’ve seen this kid - he’s like 14. Yea, he was dressed like a tart, but who doesn’t once in awhile? He’s fucking 14, what does he care? So he starts getting mouthy with the brother, which, fine, except that these dumb jocks, well…” Here Clint paused to take a deep breath. The spring chill is starting to get to him, he left his jacket behind and his Converse aren’t really up to the slush. His socks are getting wet. He hears Natasha take a breath on the other end of the line, so he talks quickly to cut her off. 

“So I take out Jake easy enough. He’s one of those hockey types, always tries to grab your shirt before he throws a proper punch. Super predictable. I guess Tom was wailing on his brother because I didn’t see him, all I saw was Dan. Rumour is Dan boxes in one of the clubs down in Windsor. I believe it, the way he cleaned my clock. Some of the other folks at the party had caught on by now, managed to separate us. I hightailed it for the road, texted Barney to meet me at the nearby Tim Hortons. My car was blocked in the driveway, I had to hoof it. That was over an hour ago. I’ve been waiting for Barney for over an hour, and I just figured out that he’s not coming. He picked my pocket, Tasha, that’s where he got the money for Sean. Now I’m stuck at a Tim’s in the middle of fucking nowhere at 3 o’fucking clock and I got no way to get home.” 

Clint breathes, glad to have this off his chest. Normally Tasha would’ve hauled into him by now, but the line is oddly silent for a beat. 

“I am not Natasha,” says an older male voice, “but if you can’t get a hold of her, I will come pick you up.”

Clint goes white as a sheet, all the air stopping in his chest. He barely mumbles out “K thnx bye” before he hangs up the phone. What if the dude calls the cops? He doesn’t need another incident on his record. _Barney_ doesn’t need another incident on his record. Why would this dude offer to pick up some teenager he doesn’t know at ass o’clock in the morning? Probably some kind of pervert. He starts walking, away from the Tim Hortons and towards the corner of No and Where, dirt road lane. He dials Natasha from memory, double checking the number this time.

“Clint Fucking Barton, this had better be damned important.” Clint lets out a sigh of relief. 

……..

Two days later, Clint shows up at his new school. It’s halfway through the second semester, he has no idea how he’s going to pass anything. He gets lost in the hallways near the add-on gyms and turns a corner too sharply, running straight into someone. 

“Dude, watch where you’re -” but that’s not a student he ran into, it’s a teacher. He doesn’t look like much - balding, rolled up sleeves and pants that are a little too nice for this backwater town - but his chest was muscled when Clint ran into it, and his stance is firm despite the collision with 170lbs of gawky teenager. 

Clint’s mouth goes dry and his head goes blank.

Fortunately Natasha rounds the corner and grabs him sharply by the elbow. He yelps, totally dignified, and lets the ballerina weave him through the labyrinth. 

“You’re going to be late on your first day, idiot. This is no time for you to be hot on teacher.” 

“It’s hot _for_ teacher, not hot _on_ teacher, Tasha.” Clint trips up some stairs. “These halls all look the same, how the fuck do you -” he’s cut off by a girl’s scream, Clint instinctively closes his eyes - “was that the girl’s locker room?”

“Yes, and you’re going through one of the staff break rooms next. Shut up or you’ll be late.”

Natasha deposits him in front of a room on the third floor - “Good luck, loser, try not to light the teacher on fire this time” and splits. Barton stands awkwardly at the side of the room. He doesn’t wanna sit in some empty desk only to find it belongs to someone else once class starts. The teacher isn’t in the room yet, so he swipes a pen from the desk. He doesn’t have any because _someone_ stole his cash on the weekend - his backpack’s mostly empty. 

Some kids come in, and one of them is kind enough to point out a seat that’s always empty. Then the teacher comes in. Balding, cuffs rolled up, and he has glasses, how did Clint not notice the glasses last time? He walks light on his heels, with the calm assurance of someone who Has His Shit Together. He gives a small smile or a head nod to some of the students, and then his eyes find Clint. His beautiful, grey-blue eyes that hold no judgement and no mention of the total embarrassment that was their meeting in the hallway earlier. 

“You must be Clint Barton,” he said, and Clint almost dies. It’s the voice. It’s _that_ voice, the voice of the weirdo on the phone at shit o’clock Sunday morning. Either he’s a good Samaritan or he’s a pervert masquerading as one. If he’s a good Samaritan Clint will be thinking of him fondly in the shower. If he’s masquerading, well then, maybe Clint could shower with him? He cuts the thought off quickly.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“I’m Mr. Coulson, I’ll be your homeroom teacher this term. I have some extra notes prepared for you, please see me after class.”

“Yessir.” 

“And my compliments to Natasha Romanoff - when I saw you in the hallway earlier, I thought you’d be late for class.”

Clint turns red, but the bell rings so he goes to pull some paper out of his backpack. 

The pen he swiped is dead. Wonderful.


End file.
